I’ve begun thinking
In terms of music.
We are a decrescendo,
Falling from forte
To pianissimo
As the clock ticks
It’s rhythmic warning.
Your voice is always
In crescendo,
A cello when you laugh,
Mournful viola for those moments
Your strings are wound
Too tightly.
The way your fingers
Glissando across my rib cage,
Playing con amore upon my skin.
You taste like a symphony,
Brass and woodwind,
An opus on my lips.
Some days
You make me forget
How playing someone
Can be bad.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 12:02 PM UTC
I’ve begun thinking
In terms of music.
We are a decrescendo,
Falling from forte
To pianissimo
As the clock ticks
It’s rhythmic warning.
Your voice is always
In crescendo,
A cello when you laugh,
Mournful viola for those moments
Your strings are wound
Too tightly.
The way your fingers
Glissando across my rib cage,
Playing con amore upon my skin.
You taste like a symphony,
Brass and woodwind,
An opus on my lips.
Some days
You make me forget
How playing someone
Can be bad.
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